School days

So today I woke up at 6:15 to get an early start on school. I read Galatians ch. 4 and then hopped out of bed.
After a quick breakfast, I started school, and at 12:45 had a Spanish class online. I was a little worried though because during the first part of the class my teacher could not hear me, which means i could not get an answer to my question.

Sore throat. UGG. I would rather not have it if I could.

For my English class i had to write a memoir so here it is:

I knew this piece perfectly, and had played it many times for my teacher. I could perform it with my eyes closed.  My tolerant family patiently endured the two page "Musetta’s Waltz” for so long that they involuntarily hummed along. And now the day had come to show the world all my hard work. My piano teacher taught nine students, so the recital was a smaller group.  But when all eyes follow one walk to the piano to play, the audience multiplies exponentially.

The recital, held at a church near our house, would be at six o’clock. My mind snapped out of my thoughts as my dad called, “the bus is leaving.”   I stepped out of our house, dressed in a woven yellow top and flowered broomstick skirt of oranges, reds, greens, blues, and pinks. This time, unlike my last recital, my hair was pulled back so I could not only see the audience but the audience could see me.  As our family drove to the piano recital, I pondered my two pieces. I had doubts if my first song, “Soldiers March,” would go well. “Musetta’s Waltz” I believed, would go smoothly. Reaching the brick building, I found a seat between my friends minutes before the piano recital began. I began mentally preparing myself to do my best. Three, two, one more people till my turn..

My name came next on the off white program. The boy in front of me had just finished “The Indian War Dance,” and took a bow. As he walked back to his seat, I hesitantly took up my music and prepared myself for the following events. However, from the first note to the last cord I performed my piece ninety-five percent right and I happily returned to my chair thankful my first song was complete. “One more to go,” I thought. Preoccupied with my last song, I could not enjoy my friends’ melodic pieces. Before I knew it, my turn came again. I carefully placed the worn sheet music on the glassy surfaced grand piano stand, adjusted the cushioned seat, and determinedly sat down. The piano, positioned in the middle of the orange walled room with two thick columns of chairs ominously facing it, stood before me. Someone coughed, papers rustled, and the whining of a little kid could be heard. The audience waited patiently for me to begin. I was not nervous but thought to myself, “Pretend you are just practicing for the teacher again.” My fingers began to pick out the notes I had trained them to remember. “This will be going great,” I believed. Then, my fingers stumbled. “No problem,” I assured myself. My teacher said that piano recitals did not to test how good you could play but to enable you to better perform in front of people. And if no one but my family knew the piece, I could keep going and no one would know. So I began to play again, this time trying to read my music.

Oddly, the once familiar notes in front of me made no sense no matter how much I stared at them. I started over again. This time, not only did my fingers mix up the keys, but my mind went blank. I started again from the beginning, replaying the five measures I had unsuccessfully attempted. “I’ll make it through the piece this time,” I thought closing my closest eye to the audience to block them out of view, focusing my mind on my piece. But it did not work. I got stuck right where I had faltered the last time. It was very surreal. I emotionally detached myself from the piano recital and calmly analyzed my situation as random thoughts raced through my head - “Man these lights are bright… What happened, I had this down before… What do I do now?” My piano teacher had once told me about her brother’s piano recital and how, when he had messed up, had run out of the room crying. “Well I cannot do that,” I thought. I had always played piano by ear better than by reading my sheet music. So I tried improvising, hitting dissonant keys and unharmonious chords the whole time. “Okay that did not work,” I chided myself. It seemed like time had stopped, given me a piece of music only Mozart could have played, and expected me to do it perfectly the first time. However, I had practiced my song over one hundred times, it only had two pages long, and Mozart had not written it. I still was not nervous.   

I peered out the corner of my right eye, my pulled back hair giving me an IMAX view of everyone watching me. If I had been them, I would have started squirming in my seat, wincing, or trying to hold in my laughter. I could see my brother’s friend, hand covering his mouth shaking silently, in the front row. To tell you the truth, I thought it funny too. “I can’t keep on playing this piece over, so I will try playing another part in the song that I do know,” I said decidedly. But I had no­­­ recollection of any other part in the song and really, I was getting tired of playing the first five measures repeatedly. “I really need to end this so I’ll get up and be done with it,” I resolved. Simply standing, I gathered my music, gave the audience my most gracious, apologetic and relived smile, and ended my epic piano piece with, “Sorry guys.” I began to laugh as I descended the steps, everyone laughing with me. Once seated, my friend sympathetically whispered, “I am so sorry about that. I hate it when that happens.” Funny thing is, she has never had nor will it ever happen to her. During the next student’s song, my teacher discreetly came up to me and whispered, “Do you want to try that piece again? I will come up and stand next to you if you want?” “No thank-you,” I smiled and quickly replied. “I’m good.”

That night, I was reminded that you cannot take yourself too seriously. What would have happened if I had? Thinking about myself and what others would think of me, I would have been a bad representation of Christ. Being able to laugh at yourself is good. I am glad I could. I would not have chosen to mess up on my piece, but God certainly knows what He is doing. He gives us grace in all circumstances. He even gave me peace during my “trial.” Next time, just in case I forget my piece, I will start playing a new version of “Chopsticks” and wow the whole audience.

Kinda long but true!

hope you enjoyed,

Allison Pyle